


LOTR Drabbles and Short One-Shots

by Edoraslass



Series: LOTR Drabbles and Short One-Shots [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthday not-drabbles,and actual drabbles, as well as some other things</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken

**Author's Note:**

> It has been a _really_ long time since I looked at most of these, so my warnings may be off. Please let me know, if so
> 
> ~*~

He was aware of nothing but the Horn in Faramir’s hands.

Though his son still stood a good distance away, Denethor could see every detail of it as clearly as if he held it in front of his own eyes. He saw the Horn had been split from mouthpiece to end, the cut almost smooth, but jagged enough to prove that it had not been cleaved easily; the trace of dirt on the metal scrolling, the shallow scrapes along its length, and he saw that the leather shoulder strap was darker than normal, as if it were wet.

Denethor wondered dimly if the strap was wet with water or blood, and with that horrific thought, his mind and vision both went black.

“Father!” Faramir’s broken, anguished voice dragged Denethor back to harsh reality, and he found himself kneeling on the cold marble floor, staring blankly at his son. “Father ---”

Denethor pulled Faramir to him in a fierce, desperate embrace, clinging to the boy as if he had nothing else to hold him to this world. “My son,” he wept, father and child shaking with their shared grief, “oh, my son.” And neither knew nor cared which son he meant.

 

 

_(originally for Celedine Brandybuck)_


	2. Guest of Honour

On the other side of the door, Éomer could hear chattering, laughter, and a voice raised in occasaional irritation. He did not want to go in there. There were a hundred -- nay, a thousand-- other things he would rather do. But a man could not always do what he wanted.

Éomer squared his shoulders, and bravely opened the door.

“Éomer !” Éowyn squealed. “You came!”

He looked at the dolls that encircled the table, then at his small delighted sister, sighing internally as he gave her a warm smile. “My lady sister,” he said, bowing low, causing Eowyn’s grin to broaden. “Where shall I sit?”

“Here.” Éowyn led him to a chair that was as battered as the dolls. “You are the guest of honour -- now you ladies behave,” she frowned, pointing a finger at her other guests. Éomer sat gingerly in the tiny chair, and accepted his cup of stone-cold tea.    


	3. Different Kinds of Patience

“What are you carving?”

Boromir did not glance up at Aragorn’s question. “I’m not certain,” he answered, making a long, arching cut on the wood. “I do not usually start with anything specific in mind; I just begin, and it becomes what it will.” He held it out at arm’s length,, frowning at some flaw Aragorn did not see.

“It is an old habit,” Boromir elaborated, correcting the invisible defect with a precise motion of the tip of his knife. “My brother has an entire collection of such figures, soldiers and dragons and the like. And it helped while away those long, dull hours in the field, while we sat idle, waiting for action.”

Aragorn nodded. “Several of my companions passed the time the same way,” he said, “but I myself was never good at whittling anything but toothpicks. It requires too much patience.”

Boromir eyed Aragorn skeptically. “ _You_ do not have patience.” Aragorn’s smile was wry. “There are different kinds of patience, my friend.” He tilted his head, examining the unfinished carving.

“It looks a bit like a horse.” Boromir turned the wood from side to side. “You are right,” he agreed, an inspired gleam stealing into his eyes. “Although I might say it looks more like a pony.”    


	4. A Small Gift

After camp had been made and dinner eaten, Sam would surreptitiously watch Boromir whittling and wondered what a Man like him would carve.

One evening, after preparing Mr. Frodo’s bedroll, Sam turned to unroll his own and found a small wooden pony perched on his rucksack. Looking more closely, Sam saw that it was Bill, complete with overloaded packs, shaggy fetlocks, and forelock hanging across one eye.

Surprised and pleased, Sam looked toward Boromir, who was talking with Strider. The man of Gondor did not seem to notice Sam’s attention, but in the firelight, Sam swore he saw a grin sneak across Boromir’s face.

 

 

* * *

 


	5. A Challenge At Last

He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d seen another living being. Decades, centuries, days, hours -- he could no longer make the distinction.

The orcs and goblins were not fools, and had long ago avoided any stair or tunnel that led to his den. He could hear them, many levels above, and Morgoth knew he could smell them.

Hunting them was starting to lose its appeal -- he always won. It was boring. A group of dwarves had come back -- again, he did not know how long ago -- but the goblins and orcs had dispatched them easily enough.

But wait - what was that? Could it be ---- Yes. There could be no mistake.

_Olórin_.

With a smile of flame which no-one saw, he began the long ascent to the Bridge.

 

 


	6. Mother's Warning

Do not go near that black pool, little kits.

When you see that rotting water, you are too close, and you must run back into the trees before it knows you are there. Something lives in the water, and it is neither fish nor snake. It has taken more foxes than our memories can tell, and you will not be the first to escape.

I do not know what it is, little one. I ran when my foolish litter-mate approached the water’s edge on a dare, and his shrieking was terrible to hear.

Trust your mother, little kits. Those men’s howls will shake the forest.    


	7. New Challenges

 “I know I should,” Éowyn sighed, “but she’s -- “

“She’s what?” Faramir asked with a hint of a grin.

“She’s an _elf_ , “ Éowyn finished, a bit defensively, and if Faramir had not thought it impossible, he would have sworn his betrothed was intimidated.

“Well spotted,” he teased, taking her hand in his. “She is indeed. Does that mean she could not use a friend?”

“But -- what would I say to her?” Éowyn asked. “Just because we’re women doesn’t mean we have anything in common, Faramir!”

“That is true,” he admitted, “but you will never know unless you _talk_ to her.”

Éowyn could not argue with that. “All right,” she sighed, suddenly determined. “I will _talk_ to Arwen. But if it goes badly, _you_ will be the one apologizing to Aragorn.”    


	8. Tryst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _(for Agape4Gondor)_

“Gaerlín!”

She pulled away from Boromir, alarm written all over her face. “My uncle!” she whispered. “Oh, I am done for now!”

“Do not fear,” Boromir whispered back with a confident grin, “I know these halls like the back of my own hand.” He leaned down for one final quick kiss which was not quite as quick as he had intended.

“Gaerlín!” The voice was definitely closer.

“Go, go,” Gaerlín urged breathlessly. “You are too young for dueling old men!”

“Duelling’s been outlawed,” Boromir pointed out, “but I take your meaning.” He released her, asking, “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“The rose gardens, after mid-day meal,” Gaerlín replied, blushing. “He will be meeting with your father. Now _go_!”

Boromir flashed a brilliant smile, dropped a kiss on the back of her hand, and darted out the door on the other side of the library as the door to the main corridor creaked open.    


	9. Echo

They have a cave troll!”

Boromir looked up from his history book at Faramir’s panicked hiss. His little brother was desperately trying to block the door to the study with a heavy wooden end table.

“Who has a cave troll?” he asked, amused.

“The Haradrim!” Faramir replied, as if this should be perfectly obvious.

“The Haradrim,” Boromir repeated, skeptical but grinning.

“Yes.”

“Have a cave troll.”

“Yes!” Faramir was having no luck getting the end table to move. “They’re almost here -- they were right behind me!”

Boromir set down his book and stood. “Then we’d better hurry,” he said, and went to help his brother barricade the door.

***

“They have a cave troll.”

The moment he spoke the words, Boromir remembered. He smothered the grin that came to his face -- the others would not understand why he was smiling at a time like this. He would tell Faramir of this moment when he saw his brother again, and they would laugh at the memory.    


	10. Sliding

"Forth Eorlingas!”

At the shout, Éowyn looked up just in time to see her brother go sailing past the open door and down the corridor, hair streaming out behind him like a golden banner.

She ran out into the hallway. “Éomer son of Éomund!” Éowyn exclaimed, fixing her brother with a stern eye. “What do you think you are doing?!”

Éomer was doing his best to look abashed, and failing miserably, for he could not hide the sparkle in his eyes, nor the grin that was doing its best to take over his face. “Er --- sliding down the hallway?” he hazarded.

Éowyn raised an eyebrow at him. “With your 9-months-old son?”

The grin would not be restrained any longer. “But look at him!” Éomer pointed out delightedly, angling Elfwine toward Éowyn . “He loves it!”

Sure enough, Elfwine was waving his chubby arms and making the breathless burbling that passed for laughter, his expression an exact mirror of his father’s. Éowyn could not help but smile at her brother-son, even while she glowered at the unrepentant Éomer .

“What if you fall?” she wanted to know. “How will you explain to Lothíriel that her great oaf of a husband has smashed her son?”

Éomer rolled his eyes at his sister. “Have I ever fallen while doing this?’ he asked as he tickled Elfwine’s belly. “

Yes,” Éowyn answered immediately.

“Perhaps I should restate the question,” Éomer said, narrowing his eyes at her . “Have I ever fallen while doing this when you weren't trying to _make_ me fall?”

Now it was Éowyn’s turn to attempt to repress a grin; Éomer’s balance was uncanny, and, when they were younger, she had many times tried to make him fall while doing this very thing in the halls of the Meduseld.

“Ithilien!” a voice yelled, and this sentiment was echoed by a much higher, much younger voice. “ ‘thilen!”

“Best get out of the way,” Éomer warned, laughing at his sister’s dropped jaw.

The siblings moved back to the doorway, and a moment later, a wildly-grinning Faramir came flying past them, Elboron clinging to his back like a burr, shrieking with laughter.

“Éowyn!” Once they’d come to a stop, Faramir greeted his wife with beautiful nonchalance. “You’re back early -- I thought you were meant to be at the Houses for another hour -- what a nice surprise!”

Éomer made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a swallowed chuckle. É

owyn stared at her husband in disbelief, then shot the smirking King of Rohan an accusatory glare. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but Elboron leaned over his father’s shoulder, piping, “Slide, _modor_ , slide!”

He held his arms out to her, beaming with excitement, eyes dancing much as Faramir was trying to keep his from doing.

“Come, Éowyn,” Éomer coaxed, and she could hear the challenge in his voice, “your marble floors here are so much better than the ones at home!”

Éowyn hesitated. Faramir and Éomer exchanged a quick glance, neither quite certain that she wasn’t going to put an end to the game. Then a gleeful smile broke across her face. “Just give me a moment to change out of these skirts."


	11. Traditions (Imrahil)

_You cannot learn how to tie knots properly from a book, though I hear that inland, people try to do so. The art is best learned from a salt-toughened old man with an attitude that is impartial to title, and with a finite amount of time to play with immature nobles who would learn the arts of the sea. If this man also has a mouth like a midden-heap, and with a mock leg made of wood, so much the better._

This is what I told my children and my nephews, when they asked to learn the ways of a ship; it is what my father told me, and his father told him when the same request was made.

This is what I murmur to my 23-day-old grandson, although he is sound asleep in my arms. I stroke his dark head gently and finish with our family's traditional ending : _But I would rather teach you myself._ . 


	12. Undesirable Friends

“You’ve spelled ‘Eldar’ incorrectly,” the tutor said, exasperated, “it‘s an ‘a’, not an ‘e’.”

Boromir dragged his attention from the open window, which wasn’t easy on the first fine day of spring. “Why do I need to know how to spell ‘Eldar‘?” he complained, scratching his head fiercely.

“Because a Steward should be well-educated, and spelling a word correctly shows you are well-educated, ” the tutor sighed. This conversation was had far too frequently. Suddenly he saw something moving in Boromir’s hair, and froze. A _louse_?

“Boromir,” he said in horror, “have you been playing with those children from the first circle again?”

 

 

 


	13. First Time

He admired her curves as she passed him, swaying teasingly, as if aware of his scrutiny. Her movements spoke of innate artistry rather than artificial grace held up only by beauty. She was proud, this one.

Oh, Imrahil wanted her, so much that his stomach was in nervous knots when he approached his father later that evening.

“You are usually quite opinionated.” Adrahil smiled at his son. “What can it be that you are so hesitant to ask for?”

Imrahil took a steadying breath. “The _Heart of Amroth_ ,” he said. “I would like to have her as my first command.”    


	14. Threshold

Eomer sees him eyeing Eowyn from across the room, and it infuriates him that Grima dares to look at her so.

He longs to kill Grima, for this and other reasons- he and Theodred have discussed it many times, both drunk and sober. But neither are willing to spill blood in the Golden Hall. There is nothing that can be done.

Grima is too close to Theoden; his uncle is too caught in the Worm’s snare. They do not know what the repercussions might be to the King, if Grima were dead.

But Eomer’s patience is fast reaching its threshold.    


	15. Unwanted Journey (anonymous)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Slavery images

We are jammed into the Corsair ship like so much cargo. Once a day, we are let out to roam the decks, our chains now an extension of our bodies.

I see familiar faces, but not my family. No laughing eyes the colour of the midnight sky; no face lighting up at seeing me. No small voice squealing, “Papa!” at my approach.

I delicately touch the raw scrapes on my hands, wondering what madness compelled me to try to jerk my wrists free of the manacles. And yet after all we have been through, I find I still have hope.    


	16. In The Forest Of The Night

It was dark, but he preferred it dark. Only the very bravest dared venture in his black, twisted wood, and many days, not even the wind was that courageous.

He heard the whisper of small, unshod feet, footsteps that faltered, as if they were lost. Of course they were lost, he thought contemptuously. Fools, they are, if they believe they will slip past me unnoticed.

Old Man Willow gathered his roots in anticipation, and waited to strike. 

 

 

* * *

 


	17. Be Specifc

**BANG!**  
 _Creeeaaaak._  
 **BANG!**  
 _Creeeaaaak._  
 **BANG!**  
 _Creeeaaa -----_  
  
“Peregrin!”   
  
“Yes, mama?” the reply floated into the kitchen from the front entryway.  
  
“Stop. Being. So. Loud.”  
  
“Yes, mama,” Pippin’s sweet voice answered.  
  
Eglantine was not reassured.  
  
Silence.  
  
Then --  
  
 **bang.**  
 _creeeaaaak._  
 **bang.**  
 _creeeaaaak._  
 **bang.**  
 _creeeeaaa-----_   
  
“Peregrin!”  
  
“Yes, mama?”  
  
“I told you to stop that!”  
  
She heard the patter of feet come running toward the kitchen, and turned to face her small son.  
  
“No, mama,” Pippin protested, “you said stop being so _loud_. I was slamming the door _quietly_.”  
  
Not for the first time, Eglantine wondered what possessed her to marry a Took.  


	18. Little Pitchers

When asked to stand and recite knowledge of the honoured guest’s land, Boromir looked thoughtful for a moment, then announced, “I know a poem.”

“Excellent!” declared the Lord Denethor, smiling fondly at his eldest. “Come, my son -- let us hear it.”

Boromir straightened proudly, took a deep breath, and said,

“From Rohan there was a young lass  
Whose manners were terribly crass  
For a cup of hard cider,  
She’d allow any Rider  
To fondle her pert Edoras.”

Fortunately, the King of Rohan had a six-year-old son himself, and was most understanding.

Come the morning, however, there was one less groom in the Steward’s stables.


	19. Hide The Scissors

Théodwyn didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as she beheld her children’s ragged, nearly bald heads.   
  
Éomer was, predictably, defiant, chin pushed out aggressively, eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest. Éowyn mirrored her brother’s posture somewhat, although her expression was more anxious than belligerent, and her gaze darted more than once to Éomer .  
  
“Explain yourselves, please,” Théodwyn requested, trying to ignore the piles of hair that littered the floor like small golden haystacks.  
  
“People kept calling me Éowyn!” Éomer burst out, throwing a glare at his sister, who looked heartbroken at having angered her brother.   
  
Théodwyn willed herself not to laugh, instead asking, “What people?”  
  
“Éothain,” was the sullen reply, “and Gárulf, and Hador…and..and…Théodred said he never knew which one of us it was until we turned around!”  
  
Théodwyn knew it would not soothe the pride of an eight-year-old boy to explain that the others were just teasing him.   
  
She turned to her daughter. “Éowyn ,” she asked, already suspecting the answer, “why did _you_ cut off all your hair?”  
  
Éowyn turned tearful eyes to her mother. “Because," she said softly, "...because I wanted to be like Éomer.”    


	20. Sometimes You Just Have To Say No

Thranduil looked at his son and restrained himself from knocking the foul thing from Legolas’ arms.   
  
“Where did you find _that_?” Thranduil asked, unable to keep the note of abhorrence from his voice.  
  
“In the garden,” Legolas replied, oblivious to his father’s revulsion. He stroked the spider’s head. “It was crying -- I think it got lost from its family. Look, I fixed its leg.”  
  
Thranduil dutifully looked, though what he really wanted to do was run it through with a sword. Sure enough, Legolas had attached an clumsy yet effective splint to the spider’s broken leg, and now he was whispering to it soothingly.

  
Despite himself, Thranduil was a bit impressed that the spider’s mewling cries subsided noticeably.  
  
The boy turned hopeful eyes on his father. “Can I keep him, _ada_?” he asked.

 

 


	21. Support the Arts

Finduilas looked at the wall, then at her proud son, who was smudged in all the colours of the rainbow, then back at the wall.

“Faramir!” she exclaimed, aghast, “what is this?”

Faramir smiled blissfully up at his mother. “It’s a mural, Mama. Isn’t it pretty? Look, see, it‘s you and Father and Boromir and me, and the White Tree is blooming!”

Finduilas studied the boy’s beaming face, then looked at the wall again.

“Yes, little one,” she said at length, smiling and ruffling his hair fondly. “It’s lovely.”

At least he’d done it in chalk.


End file.
